Chapter 4: The Warmth Between Raindrops
1013 Words
The day’s chaos had finally quieted down.
The laughter from Chacha’s classmates still echoed faintly in her head as she leaned against the door of their house, or what everyone else thought was just her house.
Her heart was still racing. The memory of everyone stepping into their place earlier, noticing the double pairs of everything, two toothbrushes, two slippers, two cups, replayed in her mind like an unfinished joke.
Now that the crowd was gone, the silence almost felt too loud.
She sighed. “Finally, peace,” she whispered, dropping her bag onto the sofa.
The house smelled faintly of lavender and soap, a comforting mix that reminded her of her grandfather’s old countryside home. Outside, the late afternoon sun spilled through the curtains, painting the floor golden.
She decided to take a bath. Maybe warm water could wash away the embarrassment of the day and the sound of her classmates teasing, “Chacha, who’s your housemate, huh?”
Chacha grabbed her soft blue towel and stepped inside the bathroom. Steam soon filled the air as she turned on the faucet, expecting a calm moment to collect her thoughts.
But the faucet had other plans.
With a sudden, loud splash, a burst of cold water sprayed out, hitting her like an icy storm.
“Ahhhh! Why now?!” she squeaked, jumping back in shock.
From outside, a chair scraped the floor. Then a worried voice, familiar and firm, called out,
“Chacha? What happened? Are you okay?”
Before she could answer, the bathroom door swung open slightly, and a startled Conan froze at the doorway.
Steam swirled between them like a mischievous curtain, blurring everything except their wide eyes.
For a split second, time held its breath.
Conan quickly turned his head away, his face tinted pink. “I… I’m sorry! I thought something happened!”
Chacha’s heart leaped up her throat. “You didn’t have to rush in like that!”
“I heard you scream!”
“It was cold water, not a murder!”
The room fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the dripping faucet.
Chacha clutched her towel tighter and puffed her cheeks, her face redder than the sunset outside.
“Go!” she pointed toward the door.
“Yes, yes! I’m going!” Conan stumbled out like a soldier retreating from battle, closing the door with a nervous laugh.
Outside, he leaned against the wall, rubbing his neck.
“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered. But despite himself, a small smile tugged at his lips, the kind of smile he didn’t usually wear, the one that softened his sharp, businesslike aura.
Inside the bathroom, Chacha sank down onto the edge of the tub, pressing her palms to her cheeks.
“Ughhh… this is the worst!” she groaned, feeling her face burn.
Later that evening, the quiet returned.
Chacha had locked herself inside her room, determined to avoid Conan forever, or at least until next semester.
From the kitchen came the faint sound of a blender.
Conan, still feeling guilty, was trying to make something that might serve as a peace offering, a fruit shake.
He wasn’t the best at domestic things, but he tried anyway.
He poured the mixture into a glass, then knocked on her door softly. “Chacha? I made you something.”
Silence.
“Chacha, I didn’t mean to…”
No answer.
He sighed. “Alright… I’ll just leave it here, okay?”
Minutes passed. The house stayed quiet. But something in the air felt wrong.
Too still.
Too heavy.
Conan frowned and touched the doorknob. It was warm.
A pulse of worry struck his chest.
“Chacha?” His voice was low now, laced with alarm.
No response.
Without thinking, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside, the lights were dim. Chacha was curled under the blanket, her face pale, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.
He rushed to her side, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. Hot. Too hot.
“She’s burning up…”
He quickly fetched a wet towel, a small basin of water, and medicine. Then, sitting beside her, he gently placed the cool cloth on her forehead.
Chacha stirred weakly. “Conan…”
“Shh,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You shouldn’t have locked yourself up. You’re sick.”
She blinked at him, her vision blurry, but his face was the only thing she could focus on, calm eyes that looked colder than ice at school now softened like melted chocolate.
“Sorry… for shouting earlier…” she murmured.
He chuckled quietly. “You? You’re the one who almost froze to death.”
That earned a tiny laugh from her, weak but genuine.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The clock ticked softly in the background.
Conan changed the towel again, careful and gentle, as if every move could wake a sleeping butterfly.
“Why are you always so kind?” Chacha whispered, her voice barely above a sigh.
“Because someone has to keep you out of trouble,” he replied, half teasing, half serious.
She smiled faintly. “Then… stay here… just for tonight. Don’t go.”
Her hand, warm and trembling, reached for his sleeve. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, just a quiet plea from someone who didn’t want to be alone.
Conan looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.
“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll stay.”
He sat beside her bed, the lamp casting a soft glow over them.
Outside, rain began to fall, gentle and rhythmic like a lullaby.
And in that calm, between the sound of raindrops and the hum of the night, Chacha’s breathing steadied.
Conan rested his head against the wall, still holding her hand loosely, and for the first time in a long while, both of them found peace, not in grand gestures or promises, but in the quiet warmth between two people trying to hide the truth of their hearts.
- Writer
